


Ma'amoul

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: The Odalisque Timestamps [11]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cuddling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kisses, M/M, Oral, odalisque verse, softer moments, vignettes verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 23:52:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3307853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A sigh parts their kiss, Hannibal’s best endeavor to sound as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders, when in fact he is entirely relaxed. “I knew something was terribly amiss. I cannot leave you alone at all, can I?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Not for that long,” Will chastens him gently, tucking close to kiss Hannibal’s jaw, still unshaven, pleased when the soft bristles tickle his lips.</i>
</p><p>(Vaguely follows on from <a href="http://wwhiskeyandbloodd.tumblr.com/post/103783256765/gratitude">Gratitude</a>, but you can read this standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ma'amoul

**Author's Note:**

> A softer moment in the Vignettes of Sex and Violence verse, yes they happen! Back to our regularly scheduled violence next week, the boys just needed a moment.

Hannibal is unable to resist a glance over his shoulder as he makes his way upstairs. A faint smile appears, tired but genuine, as he takes in his little wolf, half-bared as he stretches his arms above his head and lolls pleased against the carpet. When he catches Hannibal watching, a grin parts reddened lips, and to Hannibal it looks like triumph.

"Tea," Hannibal reminds him, not bothering to hide the relief that eases into his voice. "And clean the ash from the floor. Messy boy."

A little laugh follows him, sweeter to his ears than any symphony after so long away. He peels off the cheap clothes that saw him through three airports, across continents and oceans to come home again.

To this.

To Will.

He wonders, with a sigh, when he grew so soft.

Tossing the shoddy jeans and cheap t-shirt into the garbage, Hannibal studies himself in the mirror with a frown. Pushing against the stubble on his cheeks, through the grease in his hair, he sighs and turns towards the shower, running it as hot as he can stand before stepping in with a groan.

Expensive soap and the scent of _home_ chases the smells of canned air and cheap cigarettes, old sweat and fresh cum from his nose as he showers, again and again, scrubbing himself pink.

He is almost disappointed when Will does not wrap his skinny little arms around him to help, but, he supposes, he is only disobedient when it appeals to them both for him to be. He dries with a groan, warm and fluffy towels where he had had to go without for so long. In dressing, he allows summer pants, the lightest suit he owns, bare feet and no shirt, as he takes in the warmth of Greece again.

He takes a moment to run his fingers over the shirts and pants Will has hanging up in the closet next to his own before making his way downstairs again.

Will is in the kitchen, on tiptoes as he reaches for two mugs for their tea, the kettle settled and steaming on the counter beside him. He’s in those shorts again and nothing else, and, to Hannibal’s genuine delight, the clothes and his bag have been set away in the time he was in the shower. Will steps back and sets the mugs to the counter, stretching back for the tea pot and the leaves he will brew today - Hannibal can smell jasmine, when Will finally pours the water in to steep.

Will notices him without looking up, a small smile caught in the corner of his mouth, and carefully pours them both tea as Hannibal watches.

It is Hannibal’s arms, then, that surround Will from behind. Settled comfortably against his back, always a perfect fit, Hannibal buries his nose in Will’s hair and instead of breathing in the fragrant tea, he takes in the smell of his boy instead.

“I have missed you, terribly,” Hannibal murmurs. “I will not allow you to stay alone again for so long, no matter how you beg me.” He nearly grins as he says the words but insists, as ever, on keeping his expression mildly stern, even as Will laughs as tilts his head aside.

Baring neck, tanned dark in the Mediterranean sun, Hannibal does not resist the desire to let his nose, his mouth follow Will’s unspoken guidance. He tastes of salt and sand, youth and beauty, and Hannibal’s heart nearly aches with the sensation of being with him again after so long.

“Did you find the treats I brought for you?” he asks softly. “Spoiled boy.”

Will bites his lip, relishes the warm press of Hannibal against him, the soft hair of his chest up against his back. He shifts enough for Hannibal to slip his hands down to hold his hips but not to get away, not even to tease.

“Thank you,” Will tells him, soft Lithuanian between them, a language they use more and more in intimacy, and he feels Hannibal respond to it with a quiet sound and another kiss to Will’s neck. Will knows that were anyone to know of their lives, of their proclivities and activities, of their life choices, they would never expect moments like these between them.

“Not going to let you out of bed tonight,” he promises him with a smile, one hand back to tug Hannibal’s damp hair and scratch lightly over his scalp, before taking up a mug and passing it back to the man, turning in his hold to take his own and lean back against the counter to watch Hannibal. “Nor tomorrow.”

He takes a sip, letting the tip of his finger run the center of Hannibal’s chest to his navel when he lowers the mug again, with a grin. “Tell me about your trip.”

Hannibal’s smile lingers, as unwilling to stop it as he is to stop kissing Will, lips against his hair, his forehead. He draws back only enough to sip the tea that Will made for them, leaning heavily against his boy just to feel their skin together again.

“You plagued my thoughts so entirely, an utter distraction even in your absence, that it’s hard for me to remind myself that you were not actually there,” Hannibal tells him, resting his forehead against Will’s. “Argentina’s libraries were missing only you, prowling devious among the countless shelves. The rainforests begged for your light on their dense floors. Brazil’s beaches were cold without you to warm them.” A sigh, soft, turning his cheek against Will’s head and humming. “A country in which you would lose yourself, little wolf. The music and dancing, the food and drink, women and boys in countless number nearly as beautiful as yourself.”

“Nearly?” Will asks with a grin, nuzzling Hannibal’s neck.

“Nearly,” agrees Hannibal. “In all the world I’ve searched and found none who move me more than you.”

Will just kisses him, a soft thing against his skin that lingers before Will leans back to bring his mug to his lips again, smiling as Hannibal does the same, a mirroring, both enjoying the tea for what it is but wanting nothing more than to just enjoy each other.

“I’ve seen most of the islands, now,” Will says in turn, his own news as Hannibal sets the mug aside and skims hot hands over Will’s sides, head ducked to listen, to breathe the boy in at once. “Navagio is still the most beautiful, in that they don’t lie, but some islands are well worth the day there.”

“How often did you go?”

“I was away for a week,” Will admits, biting his lip as Hannibal nuzzles him more urgently against his neck, behind his ear. “I couldn’t be in the house, it smelled like you and it was so quiet.”

Will takes a deliberately long sip of tea and laughs quietly as Hannibal tilts his head to the side and parts his lips over the skin there.

“And then you came home early,” Will reminds him, purring soft and warm, and setting his mug behind him in deliberate invitation.

“I could not sleep,” Hannibal tells him, adding mildly, “for fear of what you might do what I was away, of course. Burn the house down. Wound yourself while again attempting carpentry, and bleed out.” He snorts, pleased. “It would have happened of course on the white carpet in the sitting room. I could see it all too clearly to stay away any longer.”

Firm hands grasp Will by his thighs, and he pushes off his toes as Hannibal lifts him. Thin, strong legs curl around Hannibal’s waist as his boy sits against his hips, arms looped loosely around his neck.

“The nights there were cold and barren with thoughts of the hell you might wreak in my absence,” murmurs the older man, hands skimming against the soft denim of Will’s shorts before he tucks his arms beneath him. “What choice did I have but to return to you as quickly as I could?”

“I didn’t clean the kitchen for three days,” Will tells him, playing into the game as he strokes fingers over the damp strands, separates them. “I made enough brownies to destroy my desire for dinner for that time too. But all that flour,” he grins, “cocoa powder. All over the marble. On the floor…”

He laughs as Hannibal kisses him and hugs him tighter, delighted, entirely, to have him back again, happy beyond words that he can feel another heart beat and match his own.

A sigh parts their kiss, Hannibal’s best endeavor to sound as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders, when in fact he is entirely relaxed. “I knew something was terribly amiss. I cannot leave you alone at all, can I?”

“Not for that long,” Will chastens him gently, tucking close to kiss Hannibal’s jaw, still unshaven, pleased when the soft bristles tickle his lips.

“Not at all,” Hannibal responds. He keeps one arm beneath Will and brings the other to his back, rubbing his soft skin as he turns so that his back is towards the counter, and Will facing it. Carefully, he bends backward, and tells him, “Take up the tea. There will be grave consequences if you burn me with it as we walk.”

Will narrows his eyes, arches his back to bend, more than he has to, to take up the two mugs in his fingers, one holding against the handle, the other in a steeple over the top of the mug, feeling the steam.

“It’s like you don’t trust me,” Will murmurs, amused, but he nods that he’s got a good grip before Hannibal pushes from the counter to walk them both to the living room.

“Nuh-uh,” Will sighs, ducking his head to kiss Hannibal gently against his throat, “the ma'amoul is upstairs, take me there.” He grins as Hannibal pretends to sigh, put upon, lets one hand slip to just beneath the hem of Will’s shorts as the other supports his back as Will holds balance. “Please,” Will adds, knowing Hannibal is smiling even when he can’t see him with his head nuzzled against his neck.

There is a comfort in being held this way again, in being carried, safe, warm, close, by the man who shows such brutality some days, who shows such cleverness always. They have started learning Arabic, together, just to see who could master it first.

“I couldn’t sleep because I’ve gotten so used to you sleeping by my side,” Will admits with a soft breath against Hannibal’s jaw, pulling back slowly to not unbalance them on the stairs, but enough to meet Hannibal’s eyes when he looks over at him.

“You will kill us both upon these stairs,” Hannibal murmurs, stealing a kiss, lips against his boy’s bottom one, before continuing carefully towards the bedroom. “But it’s good to know that I kept you as sleepless as you kept me.”

They navigate towards the bedroom, Hannibal’s brows lifted in a question to which Will nods, and then make their way in. Rather than release Will yet, Hannibal ducks again, lower this time, to allow Will another beautiful stretch as he sets the mugs on the nightstand. Immediately, his warm hands find Hannibal’s face, fingers splayed through the soft growth of hair on it, much to the older man’s amusement.

“You would prefer me so unkempt, awful boy.”

“Beyond the fact that you’re home early and you’re holding me, I have not been so turned on in a long time,” Will tells him, grinning wickedly before kissing him again, stroking his rough cheek, squeezing his thighs around Hannibal’s middle. “I prefer you home,” he adds, forehead to forehead with the older man, before another smile curls his lips, “but if you didn’t shave for a few days it would not go amiss?”

“Amiss?”

“Mm.” Will sets his elbows against the front of Hannibal’s shoulders and nuzzles him, holding his face still for the treatment that the man would not pull away from if he wanted to. “You will have jetlag and I will need to care for you. We should be bound to bed for at least two days, surely.”

Hannibal hums, considering, and Will leans back, relishing the broad palms splaying over his back and between his shoulders, almost covering him whole.

“And you will not allow me a beard, you must live for the both of us with one,” he adds, eyes narrowed.

“If you could grow more than a boy’s bare fluff, I might consider letting you keep it,” Hannibal snorts, seizing the opportunity to savor his boy’s smooth cheek beneath his lips again. “As they are, you embarrass us both with the attempt.”

His tone never wavers, unabashed adoration for the extraordinary creature he holds in his arms, who holds him just as near. Hannibal’s attention drifts to the bed, briefly, but he has missed Will’s nearness far more than the admitted luxury of the bed and so simply stands, to keep him held a moment more.

“And wherein did this become a negotiation?” wonders Hannibal. He tilts his cheek against Will’s hand, rubbing his beard against the little hands that press to it. “Though if you are certain, doctor, that bedrest is necessary - ”

“Mandatory,” Will interrupts, stroking his thumb beneath Hannibal’s eye, gets a soft hum in reply. For a moment more, they just stay that way, Hannibal, exhausted, yet holding his boy against him just to feel his familiar weight, to feel him touch and relearn Hannibal all over again, three weeks older, wearing new experiences on his skin.

Hannibal takes his time learning him again, as well, soft fingertips and eyes hooded in wonder and pleasure both. They don’t need to talk for this, this is a welcome, it is enough to still their hearts and warm their bodies from the tension that had pulled them taut in the three weeks apart.

Will traces his lips and Hannibal parts them, enough that the boy ducks his head to press his own there, just soft, just to feel them. The movements of their mouths, closing slowly together, spreading again, are all the sensation that they need for now, and the quiet noises of their kisses are the only sounds in their quiet home. Sliding smoothly together, to part again without truly parting, no more than the tips of their tongues touching in passing, no deeper than that, no more urgency than the slow meeting of their lips, again and again.

For this, finally, Hannibal sinks back to sit on the bed, Will’s legs still surrounding him, and his hands spreading along his boy’s back, around through the soft hair beneath his arms, to his chest still smooth and wonderfully bare. As they kiss - soft, gentle things that any who had seen them as wolves, with pulses raised and blood spilled, would not think them capable of - Hannibal skims his hands up to Will’s neck, surrounding it only for a moment before raising them into his hair, to brush back the long, salt-wild curls from his face.

Beside them, the tea cools slowly and they pay it little mind, endless minutes lost in each other, the taste and feel of their mouths, joined, mouths that part only truly for each other, to speak words and share breaths that none but the other would or will ever know. Hannibal sweeps a thumb across Will’s brow, the other along the elegant curve of his cheek, drifting finally to cup his jaw and feel the languid shifting of it as they kiss.

It is a release, a relief, and Will loses himself entirely to it. A surrender, always, to Hannibal, anything and everything he asks, but this is rare, this is special to them both. Will’s fingers splay through the warm hair against Hannibal’s chest and curl, he makes a soft sound, innocent and gentle, as they break to breathe, and nuzzles his nose to Hannibal's with his eyes closed and lips spread in a smile.

"I know you by heart," he laughs softly, bites his lip and opens his eyes. They're too close to see each other clearly but they do not need to, this is enough. Will breathes in as Hannibal exhales, and kisses him again.

Hannibal allows a grin, at this, a rare thing - teeth and all - dimmed only for the sake of continuing their kisses. He traces the curves of Will’s thighs and his boy, knowing without needing to be asked, uncurls his legs from Hannibal’s back to press his knees into the mattress instead. Slowly they inch backwards, lips joined warmly again as soon as they’re parted, until Hannibal can rest against the headboard, with Will across his lap.

The older man draws up his knees with a hum - an ache, in tired legs from being confined on flights for so long - to allow Will to sit back against them, finally each allowing the other to breathe freely.

Hannibal draws the backs of his fingers down the center of Will’s chest, over the downy hair on his belly, and up again to tuck beneath his chin. “Where are your cookies, ungrateful boy? I want to taste them on your lips.”

Will tilts his head, enough to feel Hannibal's fingers stroke over his skin, before setting his hands to the mattress at Hannibal's sides and levering himself out of his lap, to the man’s soft groan of protest.

They're not far, Will had set Hannibal's only bag down by the window for him to unpack as he saw fit. Within, documents and his cellphone, iPad and keys. A small bag that Will withdraws, and various papers from receipts and notes taken. A ticket stub, perhaps, Will doesn’t care to check. He is back in Hannibal's lap quickly enough, slinking into it and settling, rubbing just once against Hannibal to hear another impatient sound.

"I love ma'amoul,” he murmurs, entirely unnecessary but still a gratitude, again, for the older man to know. He is careful to open the bag, sealed and still not gaudy, perhaps bought from a vendor and masterfully smuggled, before setting it to the side of them and leaning over Hannibal, laughing as he kisses his chest at the advantage, to take up their mugs again.

Then he takes a cookie, just one, and sets it between his teeth with narrowed eyes.

"I have never been able to recreate these," he says, careful around the small mouthful, "there is just _something_ about them being made traditionally."

Hannibal has rarely been one to resist temptation, and finds it impossible when it presents itself to him so sweetly. Closing his lips around the other half of the cookie, he presses a kiss, lingering, past the sweet powder to feel Will smile, before relenting and resting back again, content. He sets the tea against his stomach, fingers wrapped around it, and watches the light in Will’s eyes that sparkles when the taste settles against his tongue, the movement of his mouth, the press of slender fingers to his lips.

“The water,” Hannibal tells him, taking a sip of the tea. “Oftentimes it defines the indefinable, in a dish, and particularly so in baking. The minerals and salts, their ratios within the water itself, add to the flavor in ways too subtle to be determined by our palettes, but convey a particular _otherness_ to the thing itself.” His eyes crinkle in the corners. “It is why New York bagels - water-boiled - are the finest, and why pasta tastes better in Italy.”

As much as the intensity, the sex, the violence, the adoration has always existed between them, so too has this. Both possess a hunger - great as all their others - to learn and to know, to experience new things and to feel the elation of knowledge burn bright within their synapses. More thrilling, as with all things, when shared between both, and Hannibal finds himself just as often learning from Will now, and in quiet awe of the particular and remarkable mind that his boy possesses.

Will chews, pleased, and takes a sip of tea to wash down with. “Imagine bringing water back, just for them,” he says, amused, eyes narrowed as he takes a longer drink of tea before resting it, as Hannibal is, against his stomach. “A pilgrimage to experience authenticity at home, for even one week more.”

It’s with things like this, that so many of their actions begin. Will’s finding of an Arabic word that rolled off the tongue leading to one teasing the other that they could learn it faster, that had led them to begin to, together, despite the friendly competition.

“When next we go, we will,” Hannibal tells him, and Will licks his lips before leaning for another cookie, taking a bite himself, this time, holding the rest out of Hannibal’s grasp, before leaning forward to feed it to him, trace his teeth and lips with gentle fingertips before leaving Hannibal to eat in peace.

“Where have you never been?” Will asks him quietly, settling to spread his thighs further, knees on the sheets, as he leans back against Hannibal’s legs. “And where do you want to go?”

“A great many places, to both your questions,” responds Hannibal. He holds his mug in one hand, to allow the other to spread over Will’s thigh, smoothing the fine hair down it, again and again. “The Antarctic,” he answers, another quick grin when Will prods him in the stomach for his answer.

“The Siberian steppes, I’ve not seen,” he considers. “The Sahara, nor many countries in Africa. Iran is a trove of history, and I’ve never been.” Working his lips between his teeth, as much to taste the sugar on them as in thought, Hannibal finally decides, “Nepal. I would like to see the Himalayas.”

He tastes his tea again, with a soft grunt of pleasure at the well-steeped flavor, and traces his fingertips idly up and down Will’s stomach, to feel it tense, tickled, beneath his touch. “And you,” Hannibal asks. “Where do little wolves dream of traveling?”

Will considers, having enjoyed Europe, despite missing Hannibal intensely, for the month they travelled apart. He has always been needy for travel, more often than not unable to do so because of study, expectations. Money has never been an issue.

“Anywhere with you,” he tells Hannibal honestly, reaches in for one more cookie, thinking it will be their last, his stomach already filled with walnuts and sweet figs. He passes it to Hannibal, this time, to decide how to share it, and strokes over his chest again, catching a nipple gently with a fingernail to tease, over and over until Hannibal makes a pleased, warm sound of warning.

“I want to see the northern lights,” he says finally, leaning closer as Hannibal takes the treat apart and feeds a piece to Will with sticky fingers that the boy happily licks clean. “I want to go somewhere there is so much space you can barely breathe for it.”

He takes another, watching Hannibal consume his own, and smiles, careful to set the mug again on the side table and let the bag join it, before sliding his body over Hannibal’s and kissing him, sharing the taste between them there as well.

They kiss warm, deep, lips joining softly against the other as Hannibal lets himself slip lower onto the bed until he is lying, and parts their kiss with a pleased groan. The bed yields beneath their weight, just enough that Hannibal feels the tension of his back unwind against it.

“So we shall,” decides Hannibal, turning a slight smile down to the boy who lays above him entirely, little body resting comfortably atop his own. Strong fingers work their way through Will’s hair and Hannibal sighs, quietly, as Will turns just enough to nuzzle against his chest.

“I have rarely felt alone, in my life,” he murmurs, “and never when I have traveled until now. You were a constant thought to me, brilliant boy - there was not a moment or a sight that did not make me wonder how much you would have enjoyed it, and how much more I might have enjoyed it with you there.”

Quiet confessions now, though Will certainly knows the truth of them even through Hannibal’s grumbling, the man finds himself possessed by a desire to give his thoughts voice, rather than let them be assumed.

“At night, when I slept, I woke often and reaching for you, a gentle agony each time I sought you and found only empty sheets beside,” Hannibal tells him, speaking softly against his hair. “My beautiful ghost, haunting every step and thought I had in your absence.”

Will nuzzles closer, brings one hand up to curl around Hannibal’s side, the other up against his collarbone, just resting there, feeling the words vibrate against his bones as he speaks. He had, for many nights, not slept at all. A strange sensation he’d started to note when Hannibal had started his travels alone, that he could not sleep until Hannibal had. Will would find himself curling up for a nap at odd times, waking at night time and spending the hours reading or walking whatever island he was on alone.

“You haunted me relentlessly,” Will mumbles back, pleased to feel the hum of pleasure against his cheek. He curls his hand further around Hannibal, holding him close, and turns, pulls his weight back enough for Hannibal to follow until their positions are reversed and Will can card his fingers through Hannibal’s hair and down his back, massaging him to a gentle sleepy stupor as Hannibal tenses his shoulders and relaxes them at the touch.

“There was a storm when you were gone,” Will tells him, eyes closing as he thinks back to it, the way it had shaken the trees. "The wind screamed against the windows, and the ocean yelled back. I watched it for hours until it dissipated, candles lit and moving in the soft breeze that the sealed windows still let in.”

Hannibal is content, the thought itself still foreign for one whose life has been dictated by ravenous hungers. Here with Will’s heart beating steady against his ear, his boy’s soft thighs spread around him, Hannibal is sated.

“Zephyr must have grown envious of you, Hyacinth,” Hannibal teases. He shifts just enough that he can splay his fingers over Will’s tender stomach, and follow the scar there as fondly as if he’d carved it himself. “What did you think of, as you watched the destruction your beauty caused?”

Will twists his fingers in Hannibal’s hair, just a little tug but enough to elicit a purr from the older man. “I thought of chaos,” Will muses, “and wondered what butterfly’s wings where you are caused that storm for me.”

Spreading his hands along Will’s sides, Hannibal turns until he is on his belly, following a line down Will’s chest with his lips, to taste his sun-soaked chest, the curves of his ribs, lower still until Hannibal is on his knees as if bowed before his boy, mouth warm over his stomach. He kisses the length of raised skin across Will’s belly and hums delighted as Will squirms beneath him, ticklish and sweet.

It seems an unfathomable cruelty to have been away from him for so long, worse than any words or blows they’ve ever landed against the other, though in truth - they know - those were no more acts of cruelty than the affection they share now.

“I rode a horse, when I was in Patagonia,” Hannibal tells the boy, dark eyes lifting to watch his reaction, a faint smile playing across his lips. “A first for me.”

Will bites his lip in delight, thinking of Hannibal consenting to ride a beast of burden through one of the most beautiful places in the world.

He imagines, eyes closed and body bent beautifully as he spreads his legs and rests his feet flat to the bed in a comfortable posture, Hannibal up on an animal worthy of him, tall and proud, kicking at the stones on the road before Hannibal allows it to go on its own, find the path and way as it wants. He thinks of the mountains that he has only read about, imagines - or tries to - the sheer size of them, how the sun would hit them and paint them in pale pastels and gold.

He feels an ache in his chest thinking of how Hannibal would have ridden alone, always alone, committed the place to his mind, thought of Will...

"One day," Will laments, amused, "I will convince you to take photos when you go, not just keep good memories in that memory palace and its hollow halls."

"Child of the modern world," Hannibal teases, ducking his head to kiss the warm skin again as Will wriggles pleasantly beneath him. 

"Old man," Will replies, and it's soft, entirely playful, and deeply affectionate. And when Hannibal looks up, Will is smiling, bringing a hand down to stroke over Hannibal's cheek, curling soft beneath his chin before slipping up into his hair again. "I missed you."

“I missed you,” Hannibal responds, sighing against Will’s belly again before he moves lower still. Sliding the shorts away, he draws long kisses against the tufted curls between the boy’s legs, breathes him in and allows a shiver at the raw scent of him. He smells himself there, too, from only a little while ago, pleased still by the thought of Will’s ardent demands, his unbridled desire.

Sucking softly against the join of Will’s thigh, breath warm against his balls as he moves to leave a reddened mark against the other thigh as well. Here Hannibal’s attention lingers, fingers curling into Will’s hips to feel his movement, to hold him near, and against the small circled scar left long ago, Hannibal presses his lips, his tongue, again and again, and imagines still the taste of smoke and blood against his tongue.

“You will not need my photos,” Hannibal promises against the burn. “Next time you will accompany me. I will not leave you so long again.”

Will trembles, an entirely pleased motion, shorts kicked away to fall to the floor, and spreads a little further. The scar is still sensitive, little and raised and Hannibal's favourite thing to torment just to hear Will’s voice pitch and turn for him.

Will splays his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, watches the man between his legs, sucking the skin, skimming it with his teeth, drawing a delighted little purr from him as Will bites his lip and relaxes into bed. It is rare that Hannibal sucks him for affection alone, play, yes, a way to hold him pliant and hard and remind Will not to move, not to cum.

He knows his blush has slipped down his nose and over his cheeks, to his neck and chest as Hannibal draws his stubbled cheek over Will’s cock and elicits and shudder of pleasure. Will does not beg him, leaves his breathless words for a moment more. He just watches, hooded eyes and parted lips, and scrapes short nails over Hannibal’s scalp.

"To the ends of the earth," Will promises softly.

Intoxicating in every way, his boy, sending another shiver down Hannibal’s spine with his touch, his scent, his movements and especially his words. A promise that neither ever imagined making, that neither would ever make to another, that does not need to be spoken but fills each with a resonant heat when it’s given voice.

In one language after another, a cascade of adoration is sighed against Will’s thighs, against his groin, against the side of his cock growing flushed and pink against Hannibal’s cheek, beneath his lips as he draws them along the length of it. He cannot tell his boy enough how much he was missed, how much more the experiences would have meant to see Will’s delight in them, to watch his eyes widen and his cheeks burn with excitement. The time alone was necessary, for Hannibal to spend with himself, and just as necessary to confirm for him again that there is nowhere in the world he would truly rather be than with his little wolf.

Hannibal’s lips part, spit-slick and warm, to take Will between them. A languid undulation of his tongue to bring Will deeper still, and a hum as he feels his boy grow hard within his mouth.

Will shivers, fingers curling tight in the sheets before relaxing against them. He draws up his knees and closes his eyes to relish, breathless, the feeling of Hannibal’s mouth on him. Slowly, achingly slowly, Hannibal takes him deeper, hums to feel Will’s back bend from the bed, to hear his toes scrape softly over the sheets as they curl and splay in pleasure.

It becomes a devouring, slow and deliberate, and Will laughs, shaking thighs and seeking hands, pulling Hannibal’s hair and stroking over his face. He can feel the pleasant roughness of his stubble when Will presses his thighs together, breathes quickly when Hannibal strokes his legs and spreads them again, wishing to see his boy open, presented for him.

Will is hard, achingly so, despite how only an hour before he had cum, without being touched, over his stomach from Hannibal's words alone. He trembles, moans, arches and squirms as Hannibal shifts up onto his knees again and takes just the head between his lips, sucking and tonguing the sensitive skin before drawing it down, revealing the slick tip, and tormenting Will with the rough flat of his tongue as his boy cries out in pleasure and presses his hand over his eyes.

"Hannibal -"

“Little wolf,” Hannibal purrs, resounding affection as he traces the head of Will’s cock, glistening and red, with the tip of his tongue.

A shudder coils his boy’s body, nearly surrounding Hannibal when he dips his head again to take him deep. Fingernails scrape against his scalp, tangling in the still-damp strands of hair streaked through with grey. Hannibal sucks him slowly, so slowly, and deeper still until the tip of Will’s cock brushes the back of Hannibal’s throat, tongue curved against it, nose brushing the curls of hair at the base of his length.

“Please,” begs Will, a soft and shaking little plea that shifts into a moan when Hannibal hollows his cheeks to draw back off.

“When you wish,” Hannibal murmurs. A rare indulgence, to not hold Will shuddering until he hurts, though in this moment Will could ask for anything, in truth, for the aurora to be brought to him instead, and Hannibal would try to dismantle the sky itself to do so.

Will laughs, the same warm, pleased noise that had so astounded Hannibal the first time he had heard it, seeing Will bloody and used and _alive_ on his floor, and bites his lip. For a few moments more he writhes in blissful torment, thighs trembling and knees drawn, back arched until his shoulders are on the bed and his head back spilling messy curls over the sheets.

When he cums, it’s quiet, almost a purr of pleasure as Will relaxes back to the bed, body flushed and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, cooling quickly in the air of the room as he watches Hannibal with hooded eyes, lick him clean and move to kiss over his skin again.

He wants to tell Hannibal he is beautiful, exhausted and pliant and warm as he is, he wants to tell him that he was so scared, until the first postcard, written cryptically in four languages, that Hannibal would not come back, that he always is, when Hannibal leaves. He wants to tell him that had Hannibal left, he would have found him, through every desert and every sea, to remind him what he had forgotten to take with him.

Instead, he just holds out his hand for Hannibal to kiss, to move up to his wrist and arm and to finally kiss his cheek before Will turns enough to kiss him properly, tasting himself bitter and warm on soft lips.

“We don’t have to go anywhere,” he murmurs, arms draped sleepy and heavy over Hannibal before slipping down to work his belt, work the fly and button to get his pants off of him. He sighs when he hears them fall carelessly to the floor, pulls Hannibal back against him, just as tired, just as heavy, and bare.

Against him Hannibal settles, relaxed in a way that he hasn’t really felt since before he left, loose-limbed and held by slender arms from which Hannibal could not ever truly remove himself, even when once he tried so hard to do so. He’s glad that the urge has so long passed as to feel unconscionable, and nuzzles against Will’s neck before resting his head once more against his chest.

His remarkable boy, heart beating safe and steady beneath Hannibal’s cheek, a sweeter sound than the waves of any ocean breaking against any shore, than the warm winds that rustle any forest canopy overhead. Sleep finds Hannibal quickly, with a rumble of contentment before he allows it to take him, held close against the only person in the world that he loves.


End file.
